


The Best Way To A Man's Heart (is through his veins)

by AlexKingOfTheDamned, swimsalot



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, Vampire Sex, Vampire!Medic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimsalot/pseuds/swimsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heavy learned that Medic was called “nachtzehrer” and that he was over one thousand years old. In Russian, кровопийца. He killed himself in the 11th century for reasons he refused to share, and his vengeful heart resurrected him as a creature apart from humanity. Misha was frightened by the story, but sad because this man had been so hurt and scared and angry and lost that he thought there was nothing else he could do besides end his life. </p><p>The first time he helped Medic harvest blood from a dying man, he felt sick after and had to wash it off his hands immediately. He couldn’t watch him drink it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the non-con is very brief, and it's violence rather than rape. 
> 
> I'm really surprised that I haven't found any other fics like this. I've found a couple werewolf!demo or werewolf!soldier fics, but how has nobody ever turned Medic into a vampire?! He's practically already a vampire.

 

It began with an innocuous question.

 

“Why don’t you eat with others?”

 

When the Heavy noticed that the head surgeon in the RED base not only didn’t eat with the rest of the mercenaries, but never even seemed to show up to the mess hall at all, the papa bear in him started to grow concerned. He managed to keep it under control for three weeks, but the part of him that was conditioned to take care of people won out and he confronted the doctor.

 

They’d barely spoken two words to one another at that point. He’d been silently admiring the doctor from afar for weeks. He walked like a king and spoke in a way that commanded attention. He carried with him an aura of authority that had most people respecting him, and the rest fearing him. He noticed the way the doctor didn’t attach to anyone. He didn’t even seem very friendly with his nurses.

 

He found the doctor in his office, coat and gloves off, scribbling over a pad of paper with a pencil almost whittled down to the nub, much too small for his broad, steady fingers. His hair was mussed and his face was creased in concentration. Heavy remembers how human he looked in that moment.

 

He brought him a meal that evening, cheeks hot when he finds an empty tray on the doctor’s desk. The medic is gracious despite the fact that he’d already eaten, and invited the Heavy to stay with him.

 

“I don’t like to listen to everyone chewing. It makes me sick.”

 

He accepted that answer for a while. He offered to bring the doctor his meals, but he said that he already has a nurse who does that for him.

 

“You’re welcome to come eat in my office. I appreciate the company,” the medic had said.

 

But every day when he showed up, the doctor said he’d already eaten, or he wasn’t hungry. He would eat there anyway, mindful not to chew too loudly. They played chess every evening while Heavy ate. It was the highlight of his day, and he liked to think it might be the highlight of the doctor’s day as well.

 

He learned that the doctor’s name was Erik, and shared that his own name was Misha. Sharing names in a place like this was almost as precious as sharing blood. The war is hard, senseless fighting raged on every day. People died namelessly on the field daily, never to return to their friends or family. Sharing names is almost as intimate as two mercenaries can get.

 

Weeks passed into months and Heavy became increasingly distraught over the fact that he never saw Erik eat. He knows that the man _does_ eat, because nobody who starves themselves has a figure like that. Broad and strong with arms that boast the heavy gun he carries around every day.

 

“I’ve already eaten” and “I’m not hungry” only stretch on for so long.

 

Heavy awoke one night with a sense of foreboding. Something was wrong. Something was off. It made his guts twist and his chest feel tight and his hands shake. Something was wrong, and the first person he needed to check on was the doctor.

 

When he entered the infirmary, he found the doctor hunched over another figure on the exam table, his face buried in the man’s neck. He heard a loud moan and the other man’s hand grasp at the doctor’s back weakly, his back arching. Heavy’s face went hot, he’d never walked in on two men making love. He’d never walked in on two _people_ making love, let alone men.

 

But when the door clicked shut behind him, the doctor sat up, alert, and whirled around. Heavy’s mouth went dry when he bore witness to the man. Blood smeared from his nose all the way down his belly, soaked into his white coat, shiny on his cheeks. His eyes were wide but his pupils were pinpricks, his hair messy on his forehead. His hands were gripping the front of the shirt of a man who was in demolitions, going by the insignia on his sleeves. His eyes were rolling back, his hand fell from the doctor’s coat, and he gasped “help” hoarsely, but Heavy was already running.

 

He didn’t know what he just saw. He didn’t understand anything. He knew something was wrong. He didn’t expect this.

 

The doctor was much faster than him. And, as it turns out, much stronger. He was dragged back into the infirmary by his feet like he weighed as much as a kitten, helpless in the grip of a single hand.

 

He’d never felt terror like that before.

 

Since then, he’s grown more comfortable with the doctor. It was hard to get past the doctor strapping him down and climbing on top of him on the table. He’d begged like a child. The shame of his fear was even greater than the fear itself. The doctor said he was going to kill Heavy for what he saw, but when he swore he would not only not say a word but actually help the doctor in whatever ways he needed, Erik acquiesced.

 

“I never really vanted to kill you,” he had said. “I like you. Hell help me, I like you.”

 

At first, Heavy had only offered to help to escape death. He still didn’t understand what Erik _was_ but he knew that he needed blood. He tried bringing the man a corpse on the first day, but Erik cursed at him, saying that dead blood is no good. Heavy was very uncomfortable with the idea of taking blood from people who were still alive, but then the doctor explained that he only needed to feed once every couple weeks, and that eased his panic somewhat.

 

The threats that Erik would murder him without hesitation if he shared his secret eventually ceased when the doctor realized that Misha was actually emotionally invested in his survival. He apologized for his paranoia, but after you live for a thousand years without very many friends, you learn to become wary.

 

Heavy learned that Erik was called “nachtzehrer” and that he was over one thousand years old. In Russian, кровопийца. He killed himself in the 11th century for reasons he refused to share, and his vengeful heart resurrected him as a creature apart from humanity. Misha was frightened by the story, but sad because this man had been so hurt and scared and angry and lost that he thought there was nothing else he could do besides end his life.

 

The first time he helped Erik harvest blood from a dying man, he felt sick after and had to wash it off his hands immediately. He couldn’t watch Erik drink it.

 

He grew more tolerant over the weeks. He never wanted to watch Erik drink it, but it became easier for him to take blood from living people. Especially since the doctor usually didn’t kill the people he took blood from. Occasionally the person would already be dying and it couldn’t be helped, so the doctor would take his blood while he still could.

 

Eventually the routine became as normal as cleaning Sascha. He could even witness Erik drinking blood from a wine glass without feeling sick. He finally was able to eat meals with him. It was his consolation prize.

 

When the doctor started to complain about how he rarely got to drink directly from people, Heavy offered himself. The doctor had laughed and thanked him, but declined, saying that he’d just been idly complaining, but that Heavy was sweet for offering.

 

A week later, Misha witnessed the doctor drinking from a dying scout. He’d been angry at first that the doctor would drink from the boy but not from him – was he not good enough? But then he saw the way the doctor became aroused, and he understood. He was trying to protect Heavy. Frankly, he didn’t want to be protected.

 

He never was very good at seducing people, but never let it be said that he didn’t try. It was clumsy and heartfelt, the doctor was touched, and he took the larger man to bed. The first time he drank from the younger man, Heavy was hooked. Addicted instantly to the sensation of burning and dizzying pleasure, addicted to the idea that he was bringing Erik pleasure, addicted to the knowledge that his body was sustaining his lover’s. He was hopelessly captivated and there was no going back.


	2. Chapter 2

Misha had been gone for almost five weeks. Five whole weeks up in the mountains providing the muscle needed to build a new communications center away from the fighting. The last one had been burned down by an over zealous Pyro who had been promptly executed, revived and reassigned. Misha didn't mind the hard work or the cold mountain or even the thin air that sometimes made it hard to breathe. All these things he was used to from growing up in Russia. Except maybe the thin air but that was easy enough to grow accustomed to.

 

What he did mind was being so far from his doctor for so long. Yes he and Erik exchanged letters as often as they could. The doves who carried their missives took at least a day to get between the mountain and the front and then there was the waiting to get time to read the new letter and write a response. This meant that sometimes it was three or four days before a new letter arrived and the longer it took the more agitated the heavy became.

 

What he did hear from Erik was no better. The promised shipment of mediguns finally came in after months of construction, and every field medic was ordered to carry one. This meant that on top of Erik being agitated that his technology was being wielded by "inferior minds" there were less and less patients coming to him for surgery or even a faster, easier death than a battlefield injury would allow.

 

Misha was not a stupid man. He knew what less casualties meant. Less injuries meant Erik was not being given the opportunities he used to take to feed. He may not have had so much as a drop of blood since his heavy was sent away.

 

Misha hated to think about it but images of his doctor slowly dying, withering away into nothingness from hunger burned his mind and turned his stomach. He should have left blood behind, left packs in case Erik needed them. He should have insisted before he left so Erik would not go hungry. But he had not, and now every time he sent out his letter with one of Erik's beloved doves he could not help but fear he would not be getting a reply.

 

When the doctor received a letter that Heavy would be returning that weekend, the hunger that had been festering into a dull ache suddenly blazed like a fire with the promise of a meal, and soon. The only sustenance he’d had over the past month and more came from the blade of his saw, when he would rend limbs off an unfortunate scout or spy, and take shelter immediately to lick it clean in haste. He was lucky to get a few teaspoons per battle with that method, and he only went out to the field every other day.

 

To the trained eye, his appearance has shifted. If anyone spent long enough looking at him, they would be able to notice the thinness of his cheeks, the hollowness of his throat, the dark circles stained under his eyes, the paperlike whiteness of his skin. His fingernails and scleras have gone grey, his eyelids white as snow and almost translucent.

 

If anyone paid enough attention to his appearance on a good day, they might think he was slowly rotting into a zombified version of himself. To everyone else, he just looked a bit ill.

 

His hands shook most days, and his tiredness came heavy and hard, putting him out for hours. He didn’t like sleeping without his Heavy there to watch over him. His species isn’t technically alive, so when unconscious, they are essentially a corpse; with no pulse, and even the breathing reflex ceases. Because of this, unsurprisingly, they do not dream. Hours of complete blackness and total unawareness. Vulnerable. When you’ve lived for a thousand years, you become wary and assume everyone is an enemy, and everyone will stab you in the heart while you sleep, given the chance.

 

The only person he can trust not to is Misha. He doesn’t like sleeping when he isn’t there to protect him.

 

When Misha gets his orders to return to the front he can not leave fast enough. He barely bothers packing, just tosses everything that looks remotely like its his into his bag, a duffle big enough to fit several toddlers inside of, and hurried out the door to the first bus heading back to base.

 

The bus drops him off in front of the barracks but he doesn't bother dropping off his things. It's late in the day, the sun starting to set and things will be quieting for his doctor soon. Maybe if he's lucky he won't have had any surgeries today and will be sitting in his office doing paperwork when Misha arrives.

 

Indeed there is someone sitting at Erik's desk when the heavy enters his office but for a split second he isn't sure who it is. At first glance the man looks like Erik if Erik were the grim reaper or father time. He looks older, so much older than he had when Misha had left him. It's as if he has started to shrink in on himself, the muscle of his arms and chest caving in and flattening skin to bone around his neck and cheeks like some sort of skeleton, his skin turned white to match.

 

Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration. Erik is no skeleton but Misha can not help how horrified he is at the sight of his beloved, thin and sickly, dark circles under his eyes and his expression near to feral.

 

"You look terrible," he rumbles, dropping his bag and closing the door behind him so he can pull the doctor into his arms, holding him as gently as he would a baby for fear he might break the starved vampire.

 

The doctor sags into heavy’s arms without hesitation, pressing his head to the larger man’s shoulder. He hears Misha’s heart thundering in his chest and the sound of it makes him weak. He clutches the big man’s biceps and groans hoarsely.

 

“Schweigen,” he scolds feebly, smoothing his hands up the giant’s arms to wrap them around his neck. “I haven’t eaten since before you left.”

 

"We go to bedroom." Misha says, lifting the doctor up like he is a young bride or a sick old woman. "Then you feed from me. I have been in mountains building. Getting stronger. Can feed you as much as you need."

 

“Are you capable of getting any stronger?” the doctor teases. On a normal day he would reprimand the Heavy for picking him up like a child, but right now the security of his arms is welcoming, and he relaxes against the larger man’s chest while he carries him to his bedroom, adjacent to his office, right off the operating theatre.

 

Misha grins as he kicks open the door to his lover's bedroom. "Da. Have to get stronger. Have to keep up with you in bed. And someday vill build house for us in Russia. Will need to be twice as strong to build house alone."

 

He sets the doctor down gently on the bed and pulls away, smiling softly at the growl of protest from his lover. He pulls off his vest and shirt, silently signaling the doctor to do the same. "Now if get messy will not stain shirt. And you can lick what you missed off my chest."

 

Erik is too far gone to feel shame at the whimper that bleeds out of his throat at the thought. His fingers shake when he tries to undo the buttons of his vest. Misha helps him out of his clothing, and Erik turns his head to look at the bed. “Zese are my good sheets,” he whines dramatically, and turns over pliantly when Misha starts to strip them from the mattress, which is already quite bloodstained as a result of past exploits.

 

The mattress is a little scratchy on the doctor’s bare back, but it’s hardly a priority. He’ll wait to complain until after he’s sated.

 

Misha can see the man’s ribs, where there’s usually a thin layer of muscle. The heavy frowns down at him, counting the bones that protrude from his doctor's skin with growing dissatisfaction and guilt. He should have taken care of Erik better, he thinks to himself as he pulls off the doctor’s boots and trousers.

 

"Will take care of you now," he says out loud, sweeping the doctor into his arms again before falling back onto the itchy mattress with the naked German on top of him. He toes off his boots and shimmies out of his trousers, keeping the doctor pinned to his chest with one massive hand. "Feed. You are too skinny now. Like sticks."

 

The doctor feels weak as he pulls himself a little higher on the Russian’s body so his face is even with the big man’s neck. He doesn’t have any snarky or clever remarks. He knows he’s lost a considerable amount of weight. That happens, when he spends every day running around for more than a month with less than a mouthful to eat each day. If it had continued like this, eventually he would have been too weak to maintain the supplement he injects himself with to be able to withstand the sun.

 

He drops down to his elbows on either side of Heavy’s head and noses his pulsepoint, breathing in the scent of flickering arousal and anticipation. He’s always been the type to play with his food, but he’s far too urgent tonight to bother with foreplay.

 

Both of his upper canines and lateral incisors retracted to make room for his set of sharp double fangs. He shuddered as they slipped into the empty spaces left in his gums. He doesn’t get to take them out nearly as often as he’d like. The simple implication of their emergence is enough to give him a thrill.

 

Misha’s giant hands rest on his hips and he clutches the top of the man’s head with both hands to keep him still as he pierces his carotid artery.

 

Misha gasps at the sting of the fangs breaking his skin, his heart starting to pound faster in his chest. The first bite hurts like a nasty bee sting but the pain soon fades as Erik's venom sends a pleasant warmth spreading through him.

 

He's always surprised by how fast the aphrodisiac that enters his blood stream with Erik's bite begins to take effect. Within seconds he's flushed and half hard, grateful they'd both taken off their clothes before they started so he can rub his burning flesh against Erik's, silently begging him to hurry and sate his hunger so the heavy can have his turn.

 

The first mouthful is always the sweetest to savor, but the doctor is no savoring mood. He swallows down the burning liquid, the warmth settling in his middle and spreading to the rest of his body. His lips are sealed tight around his fangs’ entry wounds, and his back arches high like a nervous cat.

 

Gulping loudly, the doctor’s toes curl until they touch the balls of his feet, and he moans without shame. He can smell Misha’s heart beat fluttering, he can smell the musk as it settles over the larger man’s body, hot with lust.

 

His nerves ignite when those big hands smooth down his back, and he arcs into the touch, but refuses to let go of the bite just yet.

 

The heavy's hands slide down his lover's back until he reaches the swell of his buttocks, one part of him that does not seem to have changed much despite his weight loss. He grips him, one cheek per hand, and kneads the soft flesh while Erik suckles at the punctures in his neck.

 

It's amazing how arousing having Erik drink from his is. It shouldn't feel so good, having his blood sucked from his body, but the mix of the venom and the soft warmth of Erik's lips sealed against his flesh while his tongue laps at the blood makes him hotter than anything he's experienced before.

 

The doctor finally feels the familiar weight of a full meal settle into him and he breaks the contact, kissing away the dribbles of blood that pulse out of the four punctures.  
  
He sits up on Misha’s lap with a sigh, his mouth stained bright red, a sharp contrast to the whiteness of his skin. A little color has returned to his cheeks as the heavy’s blood started to fill out his limbs and swell his shriveled arteries. Feeding after starving for so long makes him feel full in the realest sense.

 

Sensation starts to return to his fingers that had numbed so slowly over the weeks he hadn’t even noticed. His face feels warm, his body has weight to it again. He couldn’t be pushed over by a breeze anymore, no sir. He sways lightly on Misha’s lap, closing his eyes and relishing in the feeling when his dead heart gives the first sign of life, pulsing to life in his chest as it pumps Misha’s blood through him.

 

“Scheisse,” he pants, filling his hands with Misha’s trapezius muscles and swaying a little more forcefully. “On top of me. I vant you on top of me.”

 

"You have all the blood," Misha complains, groaning as he tries to press himself up against the doctor, desperate to be inside him and satisfy the burning need Erik's venom kindled in him. "You do the work."

 

Erik laughs, all four of his fangs visible in a grim, bloody grin. “Some Heavy you are,” he teases, digging his nails into the bigger man’s shoulders and dragging them down his chest, raising welts as he goes through the dark hair. “All of zhat strength, sucked right out of you by a lowly doctor. I thought you got stronger vhile you vorked on zhe mountain?”

 

"I vas not midnight snack for skinny vampire then." Misha moans, body arching into the doctor's touch. The pain of his scratches only makes the heavy hotter and all the more desperate to make love to the beautiful man on top of him. "But if you are still too weak I suppose..."

 

“My big strong man,” The medic leans down to kiss at the puncture again. “Laboring so hard. It vill be my pleasure to ‘do zhe vork.’”

 

They learned long ago that blood didn’t make a very good lubricant, so he swings off of the heavy’s lap and sways for a moment as his center of gravity shifts now that he has substance to his body. Misha presses a palm to the small of his back to steady him and he thanks him idly while pursuing the gel that he’s _supposed_ to use to wax the gears of his medigun.

 

He perches on the heavy’s lap again and licks his lips, staring hungrily down at him. He smears a thumb into the smudge of red at the pulse in his neck, painting it across the man’s cheekbone to his ear.

 

“You look so delicious like zhis,” he praises, licking the excess off his thumb. “I can smell myself on you.”

 

Misha sneers. "I see how is. When you need something is all rush rush. When I am hard and desperate we take it slow? You are cruel man doktor."

 

Erik’s fangs glow in the low light of his lamp, his thin lips curled into a content smile. “You are at my mercy,” he rolls his hips down so that Misha’s cock slots into the cleft of his backside. He sighs at the heat of it, his own penis awakening slowly as the giant’s blood circulates through him.

 

He raises both hands and pinches Misha’s nipples, twisting gently, and then a bit harder, until the big man is barking. Erik loves having power over such a large man. He can overpower any human, but Misha is just about as close as a human can get to overpowering _him_. Toeing that line gives Erik even more of a thrill when he has him by the throat.

 

The heavy groans and bucks, too desperate to keep playing this game. He wants Erik. Wants him now, hard and fast. He wants to take him by the hips and make him ride his cock until they are both screaming their satisfaction.

 

"Keep doing that and I might not need more," Misha teases. "Then you will have to take care of yourself."

 

“Ach, you are an impatient child,” Erik scolds without conviction. “Spoiled. I spoil you.”

 

He cracks open the twist-cap of the jar of gel and yelps in surprise when he’s pulled down to the Heavy’s chest and held there. He could easily break free if he wanted to, but he decided to indulge the bigger man in his sense of domination when he feels a slicked finger press against him. He nuzzles his forehead into the unbitten side of the heavy’s neck and sighs out a moan when the finger pushes into him.

 

“Yes, yes,” he pants, pressing kisses to Misha’s collarbone so deeply that the big man can feel the points of his fangs, rocking his hips back against that thick finger.

 

Misha teases him for a little while, still only using one finger when he knows Erik is more than loose enough to take a second. He loves the way the doctor moans and gasps curses in German, demanding he get on with it already.

 

"Who is spoiled now?" he asks, withdrawing his finger and pressing two back inside before the doctor has a chance to retort.

 

Erik’s forehead clunks against Misha’s shoulder with considerable force, a loud, short shout of pleasure punching out of his chest at the sensation. He goes completely stupid with bliss, toes curling, his own lip punctured by his fangs when he bites it to try and quiet down.

 

“Enough, bitte, mein leibe, enough,” he wriggles until Misha releases him and sits up on his lap. “I am ready.”

 

"Then do it." Misha says. It would have sounded like a command if they didn't both know how much power Erik wielded over him. "You are on top. Take what you want."

 

The slow sink of the doctor’s body over his heavy’s cock is even more rewarding than the first bite. The heat burns hotter, the pressure is greater, and the doctor’s body vibrates with a feeling he can only describe as light. It feels like he’s filled to the brim with light, like it should be streaming out of his eyes and mouth, blinding the whole world.

 

“Mein gott, yes!” his voice trembles as badly as his thighs when he is seated completely on heavy’s cock, filled completely, almost to bursting, head to toe with his lover. His nails dig crescents into Misha’s chest while he tips his head black in immeasurable pleasure.

 

"О боги врач!" Misha groans. Erik is so hot and tight around him, tighter than he has been since they began sleeping together. It has been too long, much too long, he thinks. He will never go away again, never leave his doctor's side because how can he be separated from a man who brings him such bliss for so long ever again?

 

He brackets Erik's hips with his hands, holding him down but keeping his grip loose enough that he will not stop Erik from moving when he chooses to start. "You are perfect. My perfect doctor." he says, reverent.

 

The medic doesn’t say anything in return. He _can’t_ say anything. His throat is too full of moans to speak. Idly he thinks, yes, I am pretty perfect, but he’s too busy feeling raw to voice it.

 

He clenches and releases around Misha’s cock, experimenting with the fullness that he hasn’t felt in over a month. After their usual schedule of making love twice a day at best, every other day at least, five weeks without this was an agony the doctor wasn’t even aware he’d been suffering until now. His hands slowly raise to his own chest, curling into loose fists, pressing his knuckles into his collarbone to stop their shaking.

 

“Bitte, move,” he pants when his voice finally returns to his body from where it had been floating around the room a moment ago. He lifts his hips and drops down again to encourage movement.

 

With a relieved sigh Misha happily follows his lover's command. He holds the doctor steady, bracing him with a hand on his hip and one on the small of his back as he begins to thrust up into the tight heat that is the doctor's body. He doesn't hold back, his own desperation too great to allow for any kind of finesse or control. His thrusts are fast and hard and sloppy, sometimes only brushing the doctor's prostate rather than hitting it with the precision they both know he is capable of. He's spent many hours learning all he can about pleasing his doctor, exploring him inside and out. But now is not the time for that. There is venom in his veins, clouding his judgment now that he has been handed control and he is almost a mindless animal, taking his pleasure with no remorse and little thought to his partner.

 

Nevertheless, the sensation of being filled rapidly and repeatedly has the doctor weak in the knees anyway. Heat pools at the base of his own cock, his mouth hanging open, a single drop of pink saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth, dyed by the blood in his mouth – whether it is Misha’s or Erik’s, it doesn’t matter.

 

“More, more,” his hands come down on his lover’s chest and he starts to move in time, rocking his body down on the upstroke of the heavy’s cock. His own rigid dick slaps against the bigger man’s belly every time he drops his hips down, sending sparks of pleasure up into his stomach and winding down his thighs.

 

Never one to back down from a challenge Misha picks up the pace, using all his strength to thrust himself deeper into Erik. He can feel his orgasm fast approaching, every thrust driving him higher towards bliss but he holds off, refusing to come before Erik does. He wants to watch the doctor's face, wants to see his ecstasy after having been denied the sight for so many weeks.

 

"Want you," he says, wrapping one massive hand around the doctor's hard cock, "Want you to come. Want to see you. Will you come for me doktor?"

 

The doctor’s whole lower body clenches in pleasure that is so potent it’s almost nauseating. His voice hitches up half an octave as he shouts. His muscles flutter, assaulted from two points, waves of sensation crashing in the middle.

 

“Ja, ja, yes, ja,” he slips in and out of languages when he gets close, he always does. “Bitte, I’m close, I’m close, please, gott, ja, yes!”

 

He crushes both palms over his mouth as he reaches his apex and barrels over the edge, tumbling headfirst into ecstasy that has his vision whiting out and his back arching up like a kitten.

 

If Erik's body clenching around him, milking his cock, wasn't enough to send Misha over the edge along with him the look of pure ecstasy on the doctor's face would do it. Misha's always thought he was most beautiful like this and today is no exception.

 

Misha comes seconds after his lover, thrusting even more erratically as he rides out wave after wave of please, his orgasm prolonged and intensified to the point of almost blacking out thanks to the potent drug still coursing through his system.

 

The medic’s body sways wearily as warmth fills him, his eyes hood and his mouth drops open. His palms lay flat on his own chest, blue eyes foggy and staring off into space. Every few seconds his body jerks with an aftershock that makes him feel dizzy.

 

He tries to speak twice, but all he can manage is a weak groan. He drops down onto his larger lover finally and closes his lips over the punctures again, taking a few more shallow, unhurried sucks. His fangs slide back into their sheaths in his gums so he doesn’t prick the big man on accident while he cleans away any leftover blood with his tongue.

 

Laying his head down contentedly on Misha’s shoulder, he decides that he could probably fall asleep like this. The heavy doesn’t even really need to pull out of him, honestly.

 

"You are warm now." Misha rumbles, wrapping his arms around Erik. He closes his eyes and allows himself a contented sigh. He is home, he is with Erik and all is right again. Just as it always will be. "You want stay like this? Or we get blanket?"

 

Erik hums sleepily, gritting his teeth when Misha eases out of him. “Blanket,” he mutters, rubbing his nose over the heavy’s collarbone. “My back vill get cold.”

 

Misha smiles and pins Erik to his chest while he sits up to retrieve the blanket. Laying back down he covers them both, Erik still laying across his chest. "Sleep now. Must be tired after not sleeping since I left. Do not lie I can tell."

 

Erik doesn’t feel the need to tell the bigger man that he did sleep, some. He surrenders to his comfortable exhaustion, fitting himself against his larger lover in the most comfortable way for both of them, and drifts into dark, but peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn't my first TF2 fic technically, but it's the first one I'm posting. Hopefully I'll be posting a couple more soon!


End file.
